In my company, there’s very little overlap between what the different departments can do. Order Admin can’t process anything for Accounting, Accounting can’t run RMAs, the Returns department can’t work on customer account info, etc. For the most part, this isn’t an issue, as we’re a fairly small company for the amount of business we do and communication is wide open.

Except for [Sales Guy].

[Sales Guy] seems to think that the Order Admin team does… everything. We get notice of customers sending payments, he forwards it to OA. Customer says a product is dead and needs to be replaced, OA. Vendor sends an email saying there’s a factory delay and we won’t get product until next week, OA. No number of reply emails about who to actually send these notices and requests to seems to permeate his skull, nor do statements that HE is the contact with his clients, so if something needs to be said to them then HE needs to tell the customer, not us.

The final straw comes this morning when he comes storming over to us in his usual “bull in a China shop” mode, letting out an exaggerated sigh while waving a piece of paper in the air.

Sales Guy: “Who’s doing this one?”

Me: “I don’t know which one ‘this one’ is. Let me actually see the paper?”

Sales Guy: *Hands me the printout* “They already said they want this on their account, not on their credit card.”

Me: *Already doing searches* “I don’t see anything in the order or any emails to us saying that.”

Sales Guy: “I already forwarded it over to Accounting!”

Me: *Pauses* “Wait a minute, you’ve spent the last two months sending us everything but requests to change something in an order, and then the one time you have an actual order change, you send it to someone else?!”

[Sales Guy], of course, got instantly indignant and started a big argument in the middle of the office, and both our manager and his had to get involved. The line “Do you really want to end up having me check every email before you send it?” may have been said by his manager.

In the end, peace was restored, and he hasn’t again started sending emails to all the wrong departments.

Yet.

I live in both the US and France, and to avoid international fees, I have credit cards for both. I can’t remember my password to log in to view my statements for my US card, so I call them up.

Rep: “Oh, no problem. Just tell me the place and amount of your last transaction and we’ll reset your password.”

Me: “Well, I haven’t used this card in almost a year, so I have no clue.”

Rep: “Don’t you have a statement?”

Me: “No, it’s all online. I passed the security questions; isn’t that enough?”

Rep: “No, we need to make sure it’s you.”

I think, “Isn’t that what the security questions are for?” 

Me: “I just need my account balance. I’m not looking to make any transactions.”

The rep would not budge and we eventually hung up.

My husband called later for his balance and told another rep about my problems. Note that we do not have a joint account. All he did was give my name — the account was still in my maiden name — and she entered it and gave him my balance!

I told my father the story and he went into his local bank to talk to them about it. We also have no joint accounts. The bank gave him full details about my call, my account balance, and the fact that they had me marked as a “suspicious person.”

So, I give my name, address, birthday, and telephone number, answer two security questions, and give the number, expiration date, and CCV of my card, and I get marked as a suspicious person, but two men just give my name and absolutely nothing else and get my account balance!

In my twenty-two years working as a press officer for a large New Jersey city, I spend a lot of time on the phone. Ninety percent of it is important, ten percent pointless, but I have to scoop that device up each and every time it goes off, as it could be anyone from CBS News to the mayor. The latter is more important, obviously.

The ten percent that is pointless can be quite annoying.

Caller #1: “We’d like to come down and assess your roof for renovation!”

I give them the address of City Hall and tell them to come on down right now. The building is, among other things, a National Historic Landmark.

Caller #2: “We’d like to come down and put solar panels on your roof.”

See above.

Caller #3: “We’d like to discuss new informational reciprocating flingles that will hoosenwanger your 50-Gigabyte system and provide for greater centrality for up-end users!”

Me: “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Caller #3: “Isn’t this the information office?”

Me: “Press information. We write press releases. You want information technology.”

Caller #3: “Oh. Sorry.”

The best one is the fax that comes in saying that we are in danger of being bought out by our nearest competitor. I call the company on the fax to save us from that dire fate.

I take the lead and our entire team groups around a speakerphone as I dial back.

Me: “Hi, we got a fax from you saying that our company is in danger of being bought out. Is that true?”

Speakerphone: “Oh, yes, absolutely. We want to work with you to prevent that.”

Me: “Well, there’s just one problem with that theory. We’re not a business. We’re the city of [City]. Who’s going to buy us out? Pittsburgh? Denver? Edinburgh?”

There’s a long silence from the speakerphone.

Speakerphone: “Uh… that was sent to you in error.”

Me: “You think?”

Speakerphone: “We’ll take you off our list.”

Me: “I think that would be a good idea.”

Click.

I am newly divorced. I am also quite stubborn and make a decent attempt at home repairs on my own. This is not one of my shining moments.

I attempt to fix a leaking pipe under a sink using my hot glue gun. Don’t ask. I make a serious error in judgment and end up with hot melted glue completely covering my index finger and partially covering the middle and ring fingers of my right hand. The pain is immediate and intense. I quickly get ice and water in a glass and dunk my fingers into it. It is the only thing that stops the pain. I cannot pull the thick layer of glue off my fingers without perhaps removing a layer of skin. I quickly call my private physician’s office and explain what happened and that I was on my way. They encourage me to visit the emergency room at the hospital, but I tell them that I much prefer to see my physician individually.

I drive myself — manual transmission with my fingers still dipped in the ice water — to my doctor, who is luckily only five minutes away. When I walk into the waiting room, it is packed. As I do not have an appointment, I know I am in for quite a wait. I check in and sit down. Within about ten minutes, the ice in my glass melts and the water quickly becomes room temperature. The horrible pain returns. I go to the receptionist.

Me: “Excuse me. I have some rather bad burns on my fingers. Can you get me some ice for my water?”

Receptionist: “Sure will.”

She returns with three small ice cubes. I know it is not going to last long, but I accept what I can get. Unfortunately, it only takes a few minutes before that ice also melted. Not wanting to be a bother, I resign myself to the pain. Within five minutes, it is overwhelming. As a purely physical reaction, I lean over in my chair between my legs and start rocking back and forth over the floor.

After a few minutes of watching me do this, a man in the waiting room apparently has enough. He approaches the receptionist.

Man: “Ma’am, you need to get this young lady back to see the doctor immediately. She is in obvious pain, and she needs to jump the line.”

Woman: *From her chair* “Yes, please get her back to the doctor right away.”

The rest of the waiting room chimed in agreement. A nurse came within moments and brought me to an exam room. The doctor gave me some pain medication. As I sat, the water softened my skin and I was slowly able to peel the glue off without causing further damage. I ended up with serious second-degree burns to my three fingers. It took weeks to heal completely but eventually did. Fortunately, the worst of the pain subsided within a few hours.

I am still thankful to those kind strangers who allowed me to jump in front of their appointments. They may never know how much they helped me that day.

I live in a part of the country that’s experiencing a growing population of people from India, and many of these folks find employment at our local [National Retail Chain].

I’m at this store, waiting for the next open self-serve register, when a pair of older Caucasian women approach an Indian woman who is wearing a lovely, brightly-colored saree and clearly using one of the self-serve registers.

They start asking her where they can find women’s sweaters, and she politely smiles and says she doesn’t work there. They apologize and walk away. The best part? Not even two feet from the Indian lady was an actual employee — not Indian — in the standard blue vest with our little logo on the front and a huge one on the back, name tag and all, and they just walked away from her.

So, in my neighborhood, I guess it’s assumed that if you’re from India and at [National Retail Chain], you obviously work there.